He remained still a while longer, letting the morning finish arriving inside him before he met it halfway. The habit of immediate readiness—of reaching for the day before it had fully shown itself—did not surface. There was no need to intercept what was already coming on its own.
The gray light strengthened almost imperceptibly. Edges softened, then clarified. The grain of the wooden floor resolved beneath the bed. Dust motes became visible, drifting lazily in the quiet air as if they, too, had only just woken.
Caria shifted in her sleep, a small adjustment of shoulder and hip, then settled again. Her breathing changed subtly, deepening once before evening out, the way it did when sleep began to loosen its hold but had not yet let go. She was close to waking—but not yet there.
Puddle brightened another shade, its surface taking on a faint translucence again. It did not move closer or farther. It simply acknowledged the change, presence recalibrating without conscious intent.
